RP: Untitled; for metacrisised
Things have not been going Donna's way today (well, she thinks, things haven't been going well for about twenty years, but this just wasn't the time for that little saga). She'd gotten a flat on the M4 (which, why wasn't is as easy to change a tire as they made it look on television?), was three hours late to work and about fifty pounds poorer, too, for the recovery truck. She'd nearly had to beg her rat of a boss to keep her on 'til the woman she was replacing returned from maternity leave - Donna hated begging - and now, as icing on the cake, she's been stood up by her best mates at the pub. Donna is at her absolute breaking point, caught halfway between crying and screaming, when she finally turns into her driveway late Friday.
She drags herself from her vehicle (very nearly turning her ankle on a stone, thankyouverymuch), slams the door, and makes for the door. And, naturally, no one's left a light on for her.
She drags herself from her vehicle (very nearly turning her ankle on a stone, thankyouverymuch), slams the door, and makes for the door. And, naturally, no one's left a light on for her.